


Bringing Stupid Home

by Starshot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Jazz Music, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Slow Dancing, for Steve and Bucky anyway, it's more of a strongly worded letter, other things remain as per canon, that says I really like you a lot but also fuck what you did last week, well this isn't that, you know how some fanfiction is basically a gushy love letter to the original material?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starshot/pseuds/Starshot
Summary: Bucky knows what Steve means before he’s even said a word. He doesn’t have to. Bucky knows his friend better than anyone else ever has. But learning how to let go—that’s something else entirely.(Unashamedly a Stucky Endgame fix it – and the closure these two deserved.)





	Bringing Stupid Home

**Author's Note:**

> Well shit. I re-watched the movies, my hand slipped, and now I’ve fallen into yet another angsty boyfriend hell. Send help! 
> 
> But seriously, I love these two and Endgame’s choice to ignore even the friendship between them really pissed me off. You will never convince me that it’s anything other than a knee-jerk reaction by Disney, pushing a heteronormative agenda because they couldn’t deal with the fact their intellectual property turned out to be a truly great love story between two men. *shakes fist* 
> 
> Anyway, I obviously need to go take a chill pill, so please enjoy this fic in the meantime. Thanks for reading!

‘Where is he?’

Bruce flicks frantically at the machine’s switches. ‘I don’t know. He blew right by his time stamp. He should be here.’

Sam scrambles over, staring in confusion as Bruce's oversized hands fly across panels, adjusting dials and tweaking settings. But the platform in front of them remains tellingly empty.

The breeze plays through Bucky’s hair, sending early-fallen leaves skittering between the trees, and shafts of sunlight dancing. Somewhere overhead, a swift is singing. It’s peaceful. Not entirely dissimilar to Wakanda actually. He has fond memories of that place. A six month stint in cryo to get the Hydra conditioning out of his head (or as close as will ever be possible), then a year and a half of simple living off the land. T’Challa even offered him an apartment in the city, and he turned it down in favour of grass, mud, and goats. People who didn’t look at him in fear.

It’s something the old James Barnes – Brooklyn-born, a city boy through and through – would have _hated_. Which just went to show that whoever he was now, wasn’t the same person he _used_ to be. Getting away from humanity had been exactly what he’d needed. Somewhere safe to heal, hidden from a world hellbent on hunting him down, while he figured out his own head again.

Steve had helped with that too. Any chance he got he’d be there. Days, weeks sometimes, he’d spend gently coaxing forgotten memories from the darkest recesses of Bucky’s mind, helping him to sort real from imaginary, and set the thousands of scattered fragments into some semblance of a coherent timeline. Then when it all became too much - because when you took the Hydra conditioning out, all that was really left was the cold hard reality of everything he’d done, decades of sheer hell – Steve would hold him as he curled in on himself, overcome with guilt. He didn’t deserve this, not really - not when far better men than him had died.

Steve would whisper stories from their childhood, or of his struggles to adjust to modern life in the first few years after he was unfrozen. The way he couldn’t comprehend the food, customs, or inescapable connectivity of this modern world, ostensibly still America, but so irrevocably, unrecognisably changed. How alone he’d felt before he knew Bucky was still alive too. How he would have dropped everything - moved heaven and earth to get him back – if only he _had_ known. Carding his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair until his sobs abated, anguish lapsed into sleep. Staying by his side until he woke, ready with a smile and breakfast – inseparable, just like they always had been.

Bucky knew he would never be the same again. But neither - he learnt in Wakanda - would Steve. His cracks were harder to see - they ran deeper, better covered than Bucky’s own, but still undeniably there. His extreme dislike for the cold (which Bucky could relate to), the compulsive paranoia about letting people out of his sight, a fiercely protective streak prone to bordering on suicidal madness at times…

He kept it well hidden – but Bucky saw.

They were both men out of time, yet with time, they healed. Enough to take up the fight against Thanos when he arrived in Wakanda with his army, threatening destruction on a universal scale far greater than the Nazis or Hydra ever had. One final battle, they agreed, then maybe a chance at a little peace and quiet for both of them.

Steve had been talking about hanging up his shield - not for good; he was far too self-sacrificing for that – but for a few years at least. Taking some time for himself. Maybe getting out to see the world a bit; not as Captain America, but as plain old Steve Rogers. Live a little. And for the first time since coming out of the ice again, Bucky had felt like he might just be ready to join him. Maybe even ready to consider again that friendship and shared history might not be the _only_ reason for his and Steve’s unusually close relationship.

But when all was said and done and Thanos had snapped his fingers, the last thing Bucky had seen as he’d stumbled forward, feeling strangely weightless, was the look of pure horror on Steve’s face.

For the briefest flicker of a second, everything went black.

Next thing he knew he was standing upright again, in exactly the same spot he had been before. But Steve was gone. A lot of people were gone in fact. Those who weren’t looked just as baffled as him, glancing at the jungle around them in confusion. Creeping vines on a tree where there hadn’t been any before. A newly fallen log, first signs of rot setting in as the jungle began to take it back. The gun he’d dropped only moments earlier, a rusting shell in the leaf litter at his feet.

Small details, that betrayed a far bigger change.

The dawning realisation amongst them that just maybe, Thanos had succeeded. Actually _won_ , and disappeared off to somewhere. But there was one gaping flaw in that logic – if it were true, then what were they all doing here alive?

It wasn’t until after they walked themselves out of the jungle and into civilization they learned the truth.

Five years.

Five years of memorials, and lists of missing, and families torn apart. Survivors who couldn’t live with the guilt of being left behind. The collapse of the global economy and living standards as half the workforce vanished overnight. Science, research and technological advancement set back decades. Loss heaped upon loss heaped upon loss.

But no time to dwell on it - the call came in, battle lines drawn, and before Bucky could even wonder about Steve’s fate or what his life might have been like all this time, he was thrust onto another charred and wasted battlefield, facing down the mad titan yet again. Smoke and ash caught in his throat, heart clenching with fear as he desperately searched the crowd for the only person he really needed to see. The only one who truly mattered anymore.

He was there of course – battered and bruised, bloodstained and weary, holding the line with half a shield, and a hammer not his own. It made Bucky want to rip Thanos apart with his bare hands. But he couldn’t contain the swell of pride in his chest either. That was _his_ Steve.

Their eyes met across the battlefield, somewhere between all the destruction and chaos, and there was no time for more, but they didn’t need it. Never had. Steve nodded, raw relief palpable on his face, looking like he’d seen a ghost – albeit one he’d been expecting. Gazed at Bucky as though never letting him out of sight again still wouldn’t be enough. The perfect mirror to Bucky’s own heart.

But there was a battle to be fought, and fight it they did. Lost too – though not the same way as five years prior. _Sacrificed_ , perhaps a more accurate description.

And whatever Tony’s differences of opinion over the years, or the fact he would have happily ended Bucky at one point (a point of view Bucky still didn’t entirely disagree with, even if Steve vehemently rejected it), for all his bad-taste jokes, and the narcissistic smartass façade, he’d been a good man when it truly counted.

Which was more than Bucky could claim. 

But with him gone, Steve was now the most recognisable face the Avengers had to offer. In the aftermath he was pulled in every direction well into the evening, only managing to extract himself from the medics, the press, and even his own teammates to finally snatch some time alone with Bucky just before midnight. They found an undisturbed quiet corner and slunk away from the crowd, embracing as soon as they were out of sight, for far too long. Five years worth.

Bucky held on tight. Steve held him tighter.

It seemed unfair somehow to be celebrating a second chance amidst so much destruction and loss. But no matter the decade, the place, Bucky’s home had always been here – with Steve. Even when he couldn’t remember it. No matter what, they’d always had each other. And here they were, reunited again, against all the odds. He couldn’t _not_ be glad for that.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, under a universe alight with stars and new possibilities, and talked, Steve’s voice breaking as he recalled the struggle of the last five years. The crushing emptiness of being left alone, and feeling like a failure. How the only distraction that might have helped had dried up. In a world where the daily struggle was focused on where the next meal was coming from, people simply lacked the sort of collective will that gave rise to large-scale villainy. So he’d made the choice to help little people instead. Started a therapy group. Maybe more for him than them. As he spoke he sighed, leaning heavily against Bucky.

He looked older. A little tired and haggard round the edges - like a man who spent too many days bleeding his energy for others, and too many nights dwelling in his own nightmares. Something Bucky knew all too well. He slipped an arm around Steve’s back, contented at way he settled his head onto Bucky’s shoulder.

Probably too much to ask for that vacation, given the circumstances. But maybe they could steal a few weeks at least – revisit Azzano and rent a villa in the middle of nowhere, where no one knew them, and spend every day enjoying the vineyards and olive groves they’d spent so much time marching past during the war. Or get lost in the bustling streets of Bucharest, the place he’d called home in those final few months before Steve found him. Hell, even Wakanda would be nice. He had a soft spot for the place after all, considering how much time they’d spent together there.

Anywhere was good, as long as Steve was with him.

A gentle snore drifted by his ear. Bucky smiled. It would have to wait. Until after the clean-up. After the funerals. After Bucky moved into Steve’s apartment because he had no place of his own, and they’d always been better off together anyway. No Tony to makes jokes about it, or Natasha to give him frustratingly knowing looks. She was the friend he’d been most surprised and gratified to make in the last few years. Or re-make, depending on how you looked at it – after giving her the apology she was due.

‘You should tell him,’ she’d said out of the blue one day, on one of their many visits to Wakanda – a rare safe haven while she, Steve and Sam were on the run.

‘Tell him what?,’ Bucky had asked as Steve clattered round the kitchen, knowing full well what she meant, but playing dumb anyway. She was far too good at reading people to ever miss the signs. Which, he had to admit to himself, weren’t exactly subtle – to anyone except maybe Steve.

Natasha had shot him a hard look. ‘If you don’t, you’ll regret it,’ she told him simply.

He’d shrugged – because what were another few years when you already had close to ninety between you? – and she’d rolled her eyes in return. But she’d been right, probably, in hindsight.

How many times had he wanted to follow her advice? But it had never seemed like the right time. He’d wanted to fix himself - be worthy of Steve - before asking any more of a man who’d already given everything for him. Then not to ruin a good thing in Wakanda, when Steve had so much else on his plate. Then Thanos. Then - long after experience should have taught him better – falling for the fallacy that they still had _time_.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Only weeks after the world began to settle back into normalcy, what was left of SHIELD met to discuss returning the stones to their own timelines. And predictably - like the huge self-sacrificing idiot he was - Steve volunteered to do it. Which was well and good: it was just a mission, like any other. Bucky even considered volunteering his help. But he was still unsure. Working for the good guys, on the right side of the law, that was Steve’s shtick, and Bucky wasn’t convinced he’d done enough to earn his place yet – enough to be trusted, even by himself. So he held his tongue. Let Steve sign up to fix everyone else’s problems, just like he always did. But maybe, when he got home, Bucky would tell him. For real this time.

He should have known all was not as it seemed when Steve began to spend entire evenings poring over old phone books, maps, and bus timetables. Amassing old coins like he’d suddenly taken an interest in collecting relics from the past. Well, more relics than he already had, anyway. Their apartment was a study in history, save the few modern gadgets Bucky had convinced Steve (reluctantly) into buying – most notably, a coffee machine.

‘Just preparing,’ Steve had smiled at him one night. ‘Gotta get it right this time you know. Not like our first go. Almost didn’t save the world.’

It had seemed so normal.

In hindsight, that was probably why Bucky never suspected a thing. Not until their very last evening before the mission.

They were up on the roof above the apartment – one of the many nostalgic reasons Steve had insisted on _that_ particular apartment, and no other – when Steve had come out with it. ‘Do you ever wonder what life would be like, if none of it had ever happened?’ he asked. ‘If we’d just survived the war, and come home to Brooklyn like we always said we would?’

It was a past that seemed so far away and fleeting, that Bucky could barely imagine what it might have even felt like. Actually going _home_. With _Steve_. They’d promised to rent an apartment together, maybe even go into business. What business, Bucky had never been sure, since neither of them had ever had any particular skills beyond Steve’s art, and the idea of being a dirt-poor creative-type had never much appealed to him. But since it had been little more than a pipe-dream to keep them going during the hardships of war, the specifics had never seemed important.

And now, those days felt as dead to him as the idealistic, hopeful person he’d been then.

‘I don’t think you would’ve come home,’ he joked insincerely, casting Steve a sideways look. ‘Wasn’t there that dame you had eyes for? The one you promised a dance? Reckon you would’ve ditched me and made something of it with her.’

He expected Steve to laugh it off. Instead he looked away, picking at the crumbling mortar of the building, far too silent for Bucky’s liking. ‘Maybe,’ he said eventually, quietly.

And just like that, Bucky _knew_. It settled in the space between them, giving him the feeling of having accidently stumbled into a trap - underground, with the walls closing in around him. Of waking to the blood in his veins writhing with _otherness_ – something that wasn’t him, didn’t belong. Of facing down an inevitability too huge to fight.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Steve continued, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing something in a closed fist. He held it out, dropping a small, smooth, metallic object into Bucky’s waiting palm.

It was heavier than expected, for its size, and Bucky stared at it stupidly. ‘What’s this?’

Steve shifted from foot to foot, never quite meeting his eye. ‘The key to the apartment. Just— in case.’

The confirmation hit Bucky like a lead brick to the gut. Worse than falling from a moving freight car and seeing his life flash before his eyes before losing everything that mattered for the next seventy years. He felt it in his chest, snatching the breath from his lungs more surely than the frigid icy maw of the abyss ever had - a fracture greater than torn flesh and splintered bone and the cold bite of metal under his skin. For the first time in seven decades, he felt weak at the knees. 

Steve watched him, gentle eyes serious, saying nothing.

But he didn’t have to. Bucky knew his friend better than anyone else ever had. Trying to tell himself this wasn’t really happening would be just another lie in a lifetime full of lies. And Bucky had had more than enough of those to last him the rest of eternity.

For the briefest of moments he debated asking Steve to stay. Begging even. Or following Natasha’s advice and coming clean about everything. But that would have been unbelievably selfish when it was clear Steve had already made his decision. And above all else Bucky still wanted what he’d always wanted – Steve’s happiness – even if it broke him. Steve _deserved_ his happy ending, after everything he’d sacrificed for the world.

‘Buck?’

His voice sounded so small and unsure, just like the Steve Rogers Bucky remembered meeting in the schoolyard, having the hell thrashed out of him by a boy twice his size. And instinctively, Bucky knew Steve needed this – his blessing. If he asked him to stay he would, heedless of his own desires.

Which was exactly why Bucky had to let him go.

It wasn’t about him anymore. It never had been, really. He could do this – for Steve. Grit his teeth and fake a smile. Pull him into a hug so tight it would crush a lesser man. Rasp brokenly in his ear, the second before his voice gave out, ‘I’m here punk, ‘till the end of the line.’ Press his face to Steve’s shoulder and hold on until the city lights blurred and cracked into a kaleidoscope of colour, beautiful and dazzling – like a million tiny infinity stones filtered through tears that fell into heart-wrenching damp circles on the too-real grey cotton of Steve’s shirt.

It sure was a star-spangled sky tonight…

* * *

‘Get him the hell back!’ Sam is yelling, gesticulating wildly as though it might help.

‘Hey, I said I’m trying,’ Bruce says, sharpness in his tone giving away he’s starting to lose his cool a with the whole situation.

It’s enough to jerk Bucky out of his memories. Though no doubt he’ll be back there soon enough. They’re about all he has left anymore. It’s a different kind of grief than knowing someone is dead, yet every bit as inevitable. The future has never felt so lonely before.

The ground is damp beneath his feet, and Bucky stares at it. Mud is the same the world-over. Whether you’re walking through it on a bright late-summer’s day after the first decent rains for months herald the arrival of fall, or covered in it, half-frozen, pinned down in some God-forsaken foxhole on the German border with a war waging around you, when all that matters are the smiling blue eyes and heartbeat-warmth pressed into your side, so overwhelmingly reassuringly _alive_ …

Sam seems to notice he’s still standing there, eyes searching over Bucky’s face in growing confusion. He can tell something’s off, even if he’s not sure what it is yet. Probably to do with Bucky’s complete lack of reaction to his best – _only_ – friend being supposed lost in the quantum realm. Maybe he should have tried to act surprised.

But really, the only one lost here is him. And he’s long beyond hiding it.

He turns on his heel, leaving Sam and Bruce to do what they will. Fury has said there’s a place for him, with the Avengers, if he wants it. He doesn’t, particularly. Still doesn’t feel worthy of more than a prison cell for all he’s done – willingly or not. But it’s what Steve would want him to do. So he’ll accept. Carry on the legacy for them both.

‘Barnes!’

It’s not the voice he was hoping to hear. He turns to see Sam walking after him.

‘You knew?’

‘We spoke,’ he admits.

‘And you were ok with it?’ He sounds utterly incredulous at the idea.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Well jeez man y’know, I just thought… with how close you two were…’

Silently, Bucky curses the way Sam is far more perceptive than people give him credit for. It’s too easy to underestimate the man when he doesn’t seem to take life seriously. But he’s good at knowing people. Better than they know themselves sometimes. So it’s obviously too much to ask for him not to have noticed the way Bucky looked at Steve. Like he was the most important thing in Bucky’s world. Because he _was_. Denying it now isn’t going to get him anywhere, and since Steve’s gone, what’s the point?

‘I’m happy he’s happy,’ he says. It doesn’t come out sounding happy though. It sounds flat, emotionless. Far too close to the Winter Soldier for his liking.

Sam cringes just a little bit. He tries to hide it, but Bucky’s spent too many years reading people to be fooled. More than anything else, he just wants to be alone with his thoughts right now.

A hand clasps his shoulder. Sam’s wearing a sombre but open expression. The one he reserves for his most hopeless cases at the group. ‘Well I don’t know about you, but happy or not _I’m_ going to miss him. Maybe you’d like to catch up for a drink sometime. Tell me about your early years growing up together? Steve never did talk much about them.’

It’s about the last thing in the world he feels like doing right now. And it’s not like he doesn’t know what Sam’s up to - he’s not exactly subtle. Yet he appreciates it all the same. A small gesture that means far more than it appears on the surface. ‘Sure,’ he mumbles.

If Sam notices the grudging tone he doesn’t let on though. Just smiles one of his trademark broad grins, slapping Bucky’s shoulder enthusiastically. ‘Great.’

But as Bucky walks away, he can just make out Sam and Bruce's conversation.

‘What did he say?’

‘That it was planned.’

‘Cap didn’t mean to come back then?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘He could’ve at least told us.’

‘Nah man, someone would’ve tried to talk him out of it. Shit, _I_ would have. You know that. I know that. He told the only person who mattered. The one who wouldn’t try to stop him.’

‘But it just doesn’t seem like _Steve_.’

‘Yeah maybe. But he’s been through a lot in a hundred years. I don’t even think he told _me_ all of it. Whatever he’s going for, it must be important.’

‘More important than Ba-’

‘Bruce!’

‘Okay, okay, it just doesn’t make sense to me alright? Maybe I’ll just… I’ll just leave the link to the quantum realm open. Just for a little while. In case he changes his mind you know?’

He won’t though - Bucky knows. Steve never does anything he’s not absolutely certain about.

‘Sure,’ he hears Sam say, sounding every bit unconvinced as Bucky feels.

They’re good men, but they don’t understand Steve like Bucky does. Years can go by, but for people like them, the past is never really gone. Can’t let it go, can’t move on. It’s as real as the world around them, frozen in time, and for Steve, Bucky must have been a painful reminder of everything he’d lost when he plunged into the ice back in ‘45. The future he deserved, with the woman he loved. Try as he might, Bucky can’t resent Steve for wanting that.

Well… maybe only a little bit.

And he hates himself for it too. 

He catches the train back to New York and lets himself into a dark and unnaturally still apartment that lacks the life it has when Steve’s in it. Somehow he expects tears to come, but they don’t. And it’s not as much of a surprise as it should be.

He’s an empty shell, with nothing left to give.

There’s food in the fridge, so he makes himself a half-hearted meal, not failing to notice the way the condiments are still organised just the way Steve left them. Delicately he reaches around them, careful not to disturb anything, then takes up his usual spot on the couch, overly aware of the gaping absence beside him. Empty space and deafening silence he tries to fill with the tv – switching on the tiny old set Steve insists on having because no matter how long he’s been here, he’s never quite adapted to modern life – before quickly concluding it’s not helping, and switching it off again.

The light from the old-fashioned floor lamp (second hand from an antiques store down the road) bathes the room in a soft amber glow. The sketches on the wall, the record player, the worn wooden desk – everything here reminds him of Steve. Familiar comforts drawn from memories of a lifetime ago that no matter how hard he tries, Bucky has never quite been able to shake. _Will_ never be able shake, no matter how much they hurt now.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. Maybe it’ll be easier just to sleep.

He makes his way to the bedroom, but finds himself staring hopelessly at mussed up sheets in a room that still smells of Steve – though that will fade over time too, he knows - much as he doesn’t want it to. He never has been good at letting things go.

With a final sorry look at the inviting folds of the comforter, he pulls a blanket from the closet and retreats to the couch, staring out at the lights of a city both familiar and wholly foreign – war time songs playing on the record player in the background. He must fall asleep, because it’s much later – the moon risen, traffic barely a soft background hum – when he awakens to strains of some upbeat jazz tune. But that’s not what’s caught his attention.

Footfalls, and a single soft click he recognises as the apartment door closing. Too quiet to be accidental – without human intervention it always slams like the worn-out clunky piece of architecture it is. Steve’s fault for insisting they live in a building that would have been old even when _they_ were young.

Suddenly the empty room doesn’t feel empty at all. Funny, Bucky thinks, how that’s something you can always tell. Instinct kicks in – years of military training and Hydra conditioning – and he’s up and over the sofa with a knife in hand from God-knows-where before he even has a chance to think it through. Whoever it is, they’ll be sorry they’ve picked this apartment to-

His feet touch the wood, freezing to the spot, heart pounding painfully in his chest.

Perfectly swept-back blond hair, two-day old stubble on a chiselled jawline, steel-blue eyes more than a little haunted as they take Bucky in, uncharacteristic dark semi-circles beneath them all the more prominent for the apartment’s half-light.

_No. This is a dream. He’s dreaming. Steve’s gone._

They stare at each other.

Dream-Steve smiles. ‘You know Buck,’ he says, unmistakeably fond, ‘I did give you the key. You could at least _try_ locking the door. It’s not the forties anymore.’

God he’s so real it _hurts_. Like Bucky could just step out and touch him. Trace the small furrows forming between his brows as they lift slightly, soft and relieved and betraying so much underlying affection. The way he steps forward, a touch hesitantly, eyes resting on the knife in Bucky’s hand. His touch – warm fingers sliding across Bucky’s own, easing the weapon from his-

 _Warm_.

_Solid._

The knife falls from his fingers, clattering to the floor blade-first. _That’s_ going to leave a mark.

‘Steve,’ he gasps, disbelieving.

Strong arms catch him, steady and sure, as he stumbles forward. Wrap around him tightly, too tight if he was anyone else, because there’s steel beneath those muscles. Inhuman strength, in painfully human form.

A broken sob tears itself from his chest. ‘But… you _left_.’

Steve takes a slow, deliberate breath, and Bucky can feel him hesitate before he answers. ‘I know.’

He presses his face to the hollow of Steve’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin. Feeling the heat beneath it seep into his cheek, and letting reason fall by the wayside. Because he could never have enough of this – enough of Steve. It’s selfish, he knows. But he was never a selfless kind of guy. It was always Steve who made him something more – something better than he was.

‘Why?’ he manages, swallowing.

The arms around him tighten. ‘I missed you.’

Pinpricks sting behind Bucky’s eyes. One of his hands finds its way up to tangle in Steve’s hair, the other clutches the fabric of his t-shirt, gripping as though he’ll never let go. He clenches his teeth, but holding back the flood of tears is impossible. Emotion spills out; heedless of reason, or caution, or the fear that Steve might realise this is how he really feels – has felt all these years.

If Steve knows though, he doesn’t let on. He holds Bucky as he sobs, nose pressed into his hair, silent presence conveying more than words ever could. And when Bucky finally lets go, Steve doesn’t. Eyes trace the contours of Bucky’s face as Steve reaches out and brushes a thumb over his cheek, smearing moisture across it. He seems surprised by it, touch lingering briefly, before he sighs wistfully and withdraws his hand.

If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say Steve’s eyes look a little watery too.

He’s got to pull himself together though. Because this is his _best friend_ he’s talking about. If Steve’s here, something must have gone wrong in the alternate timeline. It’s the only explanation for why he’s back.

‘Did the plan not work?’ he demands. Whatever the problem is, he’ll make sure they fix it.

Steve blinks for a moment, then laughs. A little closer to desperate than humorous perhaps, but Bucky can’t help but love the way it transforms his face, tugging at familiar lines and wrinkles that leave his chest aching more painfully than all of Hydra’s torture ever could.

‘No, it worked.’

A frown. ‘Then what are you doing back here? I thought you had a dance to make, with Peggy?’

Steve’s gaze drops to his feet, scuffing at a floorboard with his toe, looking every bit the boy Bucky remembers being pulled into all those disciplinary meetings for fighting bullies in the schoolyard. ‘Yeah. I made it. It was nice.’

‘But-’

‘It wasn’t _right_.’

Those beautiful blue eyes meet his own, intense in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. Like when Steve’s on a mission, and he’s not going to let anything stand in his way.

He sighs. Steve’s always been like this, and it’s always been as endearing as it is frustrating. ‘You really do take all the stupid with you,’ he gripes. ‘A beautiful woman who wants to share a future with you and you trade it all for this.’ He waves a hand around the apartment, but it’s not the bricks and mortar he means. It’s this whole time, and everything in it. Himself included. The way it’ll never quite be home, no matter how long they're here. The ever-present yearning he’ll always feel for a time and place forever gone. 

Steve nods thoughtfully, biting his lip. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am stupid. But I still couldn’t do it.’

He looks determined. Unstoppable, in the way that’s always set Bucky’s heart racing and had him despairing for Steve’s safety at the same time.

The song on the record player shifts to a soulful slow jazzy number that Bucky recalls is one of Steve’s favourites. A breeze drifts gently through the open windows, rustling the net curtains and carrying muted city-noise with it. For just a second, if he lets his mind drift, it’s almost possible to imagine they’re back, before the war, before Hydra, before _everything_.

He leans against the couch, already knowing there’s no arguing with Steve. You never could argue with Steve. Erskine might have been able to turn the kid into a super-soldier, but never take the kid _out_ of the super-soldier. And for that, Bucky’s always been undeniably grateful. Owes his _life_ to it, truth be told. ‘Alright,’ he says, wondering what mad plan Steve will have him chasing after this time. ‘You’d better explain.’

A wry smile flashes over Steve’s face. He coughs, glances away, then back, expression that strange combination of quirky, genuine and serious that only Steve can pull off. A hand slips through his hair, coming to rest at the back of his neck, looking as though he can’t quite keep all its nervous energy under control.

‘Not the right partner.’

He looks straight at Bucky as he says it, and normally Bucky would roll his eyes at Steve re-using that old line. It was always his excuse to justify his insecurities around women, but it’s not one Bucky’s heard him use since the war. After all, Captain America had no trouble attracting the attention of the opposite sex, whether he wanted it or not (and much to Bucky’s chagrin). But this feels… different.

There was a time when he would have pressed Steve for an explanation, back when he was young and dumb, and always had something to prove. These days though, Steve usually does more than enough talking for both of them. Bucky just raises an eyebrow, guessing if he gives Steve time, he’ll come out with whatever he’s trying to say eventually.

The music swells. _You’ll never know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you…_

The irony of the lyric doesn’t escape him.

Steve takes a half-step closer. ‘I think I needed to go back there to understand something.’

Bucky holds his breath, a lightning-shiver shooting up his spine. Steve reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, touch lingering over his forehead, his cheek. Gentle yet certain. Familiar yet foreign. He finds himself leaning into it. They’ve always been physically familiar with each other – much to the amusement, and sometimes consternation of those around them, especially back before it was… acceptable - but this feels like something new. 

_Or just how empty they all seemed without you…_

Steve watches him closely, tiny darting eye movements giving away his nervousness. He brings his hand to rest on the nape of Bucky’s neck and swallows roughly, looking like he’s fighting to get the words out. ‘That what I was looking for was with me all along.’

Bucky’s mouth opens, stomach executing an unbelievably giddy flip. For a second he forgets how to breathe, brain kicking completely into overdrive. His skin feels electric everywhere Steve is touching it, and he’s so, _so_ close. But not close _enough_. And Bucky wants to be _sure_ about this. He widens his stance slightly, and after a moment’s hesitation – Steve steps into the newly formed space, pressing their thighs against each other. His other hand settles cautiously over Bucky’s waist, just hanging there, non-committal. Giving him an out, if he wants it. There’s a tiny pulse point in Steve’s neck, and it's visibly racing every bit as fast a Bucky’s own heart.

_So kiss me once, then kiss me twice…_

For the longest second they’re a frozen tableau. Disbelief, or fear perhaps. Too scared of ruining what they already have to make the first move. To take a chance. But damned if Bucky’s going to miss the opportunity he’s been waiting more than _seventy years_ for. Never again.

With a low incoherent noise of desire, he wraps his fingers into Steve’s shirt and pulls him down into a kiss. Not the tidiest he could have managed maybe, but there’s real, aching feeling behind it. A lifetime’s worth. All the pieces of a long-lost puzzle, falling into place as Steve’s lips curve delightfully beneath his own, pressing back with gradually increasing certainty.

Coarse stubble scrapes across chin and upper lip, fingers tighten into skin, drinking in the warm, sweet, toffee-apple and cinnamon scent that was always so Steve. He tastes as good as he smells; and just as good as Bucky always imagined – like long summer evenings at Coney Island, eating one nickel ice creams by the sea after Bucky dabbed the blood off yet another split lip from a fight Steve got into while his back was turned. Like the plums he used to steal from the grand old house two blocks away and take to Steve when he was sick – plucked from heavy overhanging boughs, stuffed in the front of his shirt as he tore down the road to fading cries of anger. Like winter nights in the villages of Europe, when the temperature plummeted well below thirty-two, and they inevitably found themselves in some smoky local bar or another, Steve turning up his nose as Bucky tried to convince him again to try a cigarette. ‘C’mon Stevie, it’s just _one_. What’re you so afraid of?’

Together – always – the one continuous thread in an otherwise tumultuous life.

 _This. Them..._ It’s as natural as breathing. There’s _nothing_ about it that doesn’t feel right. Not a single damn thing. Almost like they’ve always known, Bucky thinks.

_Then kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long time…_

Steve pulls back, brilliant smile on his face, holding out his hand like some kind of invitation. 

Bucky stares at it, making a face at the interruption. ‘What are you doing?’

There’s a hint of a blush starting on Steve’s cheeks as he chuckles self-consciously. ‘Call it making sure.’

And Bucky understands. Steve wants to _dance_. It’s the most ridiculous, old-fashioned, utterly _Steve_ thing to want to do, yet somehow just as adorable as it is absurd. Not that Bucky will ever admit as much. 

Steve pulls him to standing, and after a couple of false starts over who’s leading and who’s following, they settle into a comfortable embrace, swaying slowly to the music. Basking in the timeless air of an early New York morning - the hum of a city a century changed, but still the same at heart. From the gaudy glitz of the Manhattan skyline, always so far out of reach for common folks like them, to the humble dockside bars and back-alleys of Brooklyn where a ninety-five pound half-pint with an unbreakable spirit singlehandedly changed the course of history - the world’s, but far more importantly, Bucky’s own.

‘So,’ he asks as the music ends, mouth somehow much drier than warranted considering who he’s talking to. Because this is Steve. His best friend. Together ‘till the end of the line, no matter what, and even if this has all just been a horrible mistake it would never come between them, _could_ never. ‘How’d I do?’

Steve smiles warmly. Leans in and kisses him again, still soft and more than a little unsure. But he’ll get the hang of it soon enough, if this is going to be something more than a passing dalliance. And given his response, Bucky’s fairly certain it will be. He feels like he’s floating on air.

‘Mmhmm. Definitely the right partner,’ Steve murmurs quietly, playing with a strand of Bucky’s far-too-long hair, before blushing bright red and ducking his head to hide it.

It’s sweet, but Bucky can’t resist the opportunity to tease just a little. Maybe it’s that there’s still a little more of his old self left than he thought, or maybe it’s just that Steve brings it to the surface like no one else can. ‘Well thanks. Only kept me waiting seventy years pal.’

Steve laughs. Then looks mortified. Then confused. ‘Wait,’ he says slowly, like he’s turning over some half-formed theory he doesn’t fully understand in his head. ‘Are you saying you felt this way about me during the war?’

Bucky pauses, deliberating. He could try to deny it, but there’s not much point really, considering. ‘Are you telling me you never noticed?’

There’s embarrassment, but also gratification on Steve’s face at that. ‘I thought it was just _me_ ,’ he says wondrously. ‘That there was something wrong with me. Feeling like that about my _best_ friend. I mean—'

And God if Bucky doesn’t love him for that. He slides his arms around Steve’s waist, pulling him close with a sly grin he’s pretty sure he hasn’t worn in seven decades. And back then it was reserved for women. ‘I’d say we have missed time to make up for then. Because I’ve always wondered how you’d sound if I—’ he leans close, whispering the rest into Steve’s ear.

Steve’s eyes go wide. And if he was red before, it’s nothing compared to now. ‘Buck!’ he splutters. ‘I’m— new at this. And I don’t know anything about being with men. I never—'

Something tells Bucky that’s as close as Steve Rogers is ever going to come to admitting he’s a virgin. As if Bucky hadn’t already guessed as much. Not that his own experience is much greater, women excluded – a couple of fumbled gropes in some of the raunchier bars and bathhouses a smooth-talking kid could buy their way into in the late ‘30’s, maybe a kiss here or there – before the war took over all their lives. And none of them ever captured his heart the way Steve Rogers did.

But Bucky does have one thing going for him - his knack for technology. And he’s not going to let Steve deter him from using it. ‘Lucky for _you_ , I know how to use the internet,’ he says, unable to help a rakish grin.

Steve gives him a _look_. One Bucky knows all-too-well by now. It’s kind of ‘you’re being an asshole’ - not that Steve would ever say that - but with shades of fondness, or nostalgia even. Best he can ascertain, it happens in the moments when Bucky feels most _himself_ ; forgets for just a second the horrors of his time with Hydra ever happened. Maybe it’s just humour, or cockiness, or a spark of something Steve remembers from years ago, that Bucky himself has long forgotten-

Whatever it is, he loves the look in Steve’s eyes while it lasts.

Bucky's turn to offer up his hand, smiling like he never thought he would again as he pulls Steve toward the bedroom. ‘Come on punk. We’ll figure it out together.’

The smile on Steve’s face makes it all worthwhile.

* * *

Sam casts a sideways glance across the diner's table, eyebrow arched. ‘Hey I know pride is a thing now, but do you guys think you could be proud somewhere else? In private, maybe?’

Bucky extracts his tongue from Steve’s mouth for just long enough to glare his new teammate. As though sensing the tension, Steve chuckles a little nervously. ‘Come on Sam, we’re making up for lost time. It’s been over seventy years!’

Sam blinks. Then looks moderately horrified. ‘Oh that is _not_ making it better. You two are like a hundred years old! This is like watching my grandpa make out…’

‘Yeah if your grandpa looked like a damn fine thirty-something,’ Bucky counters, tilting his head to better admire Steve before pulling him into his lap. ‘With America’s ass.’

He slaps a hand onto it for emphasis and Steve blushes. ‘Buck!’

‘What? _They’re_ loving it.’ Bucky waves at a group of girls tittering in the corner. Turns out the world has really embraced the concept of bisexual Captain America and his gay best friend. The internet is calling it the greatest love story of the twenty-first century, there’s fanart of Steve and Bucky holding rainbow flags, and just the other day, someone even proposed they be given the keys to New York city. Whatever that means.

Bucky doesn’t care about any of it. He’s had seventy years to think – even if his brain was scrambled for a good portion of it. The only reason he’s still here, still James Buchanan Barnes at all - if a little changed - comes down to Steve. The man who refused to give up on his best friend. Who reached out when no one else would, and pulled him from the dark. Who has always, and will always, be at the centre of Bucky’s world.

Natasha was right. He’s waited far too long to miss a moment of this.

Sam rolls his eyes and someone snaps a photo. No doubt by tomorrow it’ll be a meme: Captain America and the Winter Soldier out for lunch, with disgruntled, third-wheel friend.

Sam makes a face as though he’s well aware of that fact. ‘I can’t believe I agreed to be on a team with you two,’ he gripes. ‘Falcon, Winter Soldier and Captain America. It sounds like a bad seventies buddy cop film.’

‘Hey, I happen to I like those,’ Steve pipes up. ‘They’re all about teamwork. People learning to appreciate each other’s differences, and becoming friends.’

Bucky shares a glance with Sam who snickers, loudly, ‘Yeah. _Friends_. Figures you’d like them Cap.’

Steve’s brows furrow. He glances between his teammates. ‘What do you mean?’

Sam adopts his best serious face. Even so, his lips still curl slightly upward at the corners, brows sitting just a little higher than innocent. ‘Well it’s just there’s this thing whole about subtext y’know, and not taking everything at face value. Stuff you could maybe read into read into a little more, if you were that way inclined. Know what I’m saying?’

Bucky almost chokes on his tea. Trust Sam to go there.

Steve just looks confused. 'No, I really don’t. Bucky?'

Hearing his name makes Bucky’s heart clench just a little in his chest. He’s still not used to the way Steve says it – with so much love and trust behind it. The weight of nearly a century of friendship, despite everything Bucky’s done. He really is so lucky to still be here, with Steve, after everything that’s happened to them. 

'Don’t ask me,' he says, wrapping an arm around Steve’s middle and pulling him close. ‘But I think we’ll be the best buddy superhero trio America’s ever seen, right Sam?’

There’s a sarcastic snort from the other side of the table, and Bucky ignores it, eyes only for Steve. The trusting smile that curves across his lips, blue eyes alight with a depth of fondness that nearly steals the breath from his lungs. How Steve still smells like that damn fruity aftershave he’s insisted on using ever since the ‘30’s, and the way he leans in to kiss Bucky again, twining their fingers together and pressing them to his heart. It might have taken them nearly a century, and countless missed turns to get here – but there’s no question it’s been a century worth waiting for.

A whispered admission between one breath and the next, truth slipping out before he can stop it – 'I love you Steve.'

Soft lips that curve upward beneath his own, responding without hesitation. 'I love you too Buck.'

He smiles. It’s been a long time coming, but _finally_ , they’re home.


End file.
